


Christmas Angels

by TawnyOwl95



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale needs to work through some stuff, Couch Cuddles, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, So does Crowley, aborted Christmas shopping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:15:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21858163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TawnyOwl95/pseuds/TawnyOwl95
Summary: It’s starting to look a lot like Christmas in London and that means there are lots of angels about. Aziraphale does not handle this well.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 110





	Christmas Angels

**Author's Note:**

> So I wanted to write a sweet and fluffy Christmas fic and it kind of gets there in the end.

The first time it happens Aziraphale was sure it’s a fluke. He’s browsing the men’s cologne with Crowley very much on his mind. The shop is busy and although no one would dare to jostle him, even though they wouldn’t really know why, the constant hubbub is starting to wear on his nerves. The lights are bright and the whole department store is a glitter with Christmas cheer. Aziraphale backs away from the cologne because maybe that’s too personal? They’ve never really done Christmas gifts before. Not officially at any rate. It’s been more along the lines of _, I was just passing such and such place for work and saw this, thought of you…better not thank me._

This year is different though. Or a tiny part of Aziraphale’s heart that he thought long since dried out wants it to be different. It’s the first Christmas since the failed Armageddon. The first Christmas of Our Side. Aziraphale is burning up with an all-consuming want to do something to mark the occasion. To make it official. What ‘it’ is still needs some definition, but the intent is there, as is the hope.

Aziraphale wrings his hands then puts them decidedly behind his back.

Perhaps some gloves then? Crowley is normally more about style than practicality which means that, more often than not, his fingers turn blue at this time of year. Driving gloves, maybe?

Aziraphale sees wings out of the corner of his eye. He spins, knocking into a harassed mother laden down with toddlers and shopping bags.

“So sorry, my dear.” Aziraphale automatically helps set her to rights while scanning the crowd, heart thudding. He thought they’d have more time. He should call Crowley. He turns again but sees no angels. At least no real ones. There’s a large plastic model by the mince pies, blowing a horn, wings out stretched. Aziraphale turns again and realises it was those wings reflected in the shop window that made him start.

He makes himself chuckle, then goes straight home, locks up the book shop and pours himself a whiskey.

The second time Aziraphale reprimands himself for not immediately realising what was happening. Afterwards (nursing another whiskey) he gives himself a severe talking to on this point. He’d been looking at gloves. Black seems too obvious and red too garish, but there is really no in between. If he’d been more organised he could have had some custom made. They’ve been trying to fly below the radar, keeping miracles to a minimum, but he could go down that route, and it would be for Crowley. Hardly anything to make Heaven suspicious. It would barely register with Gabriel at all.

It’s the thinking of Gabriel that does it. That faint spike of adrenaline that always accompanies thoughts of the archangel and when he might appear. Aziraphale’s on edge despite the knowledge that there really is nothing to worry about and the breathing exercises he’s been doing should work if he persists. The brush of feathers on the back of his hand make him leap back with a yelp.

The angel bursts into tears. She must be about six and her halo is golden tinsel. Her wings are taller than she is and look terribly convincing. They must have taken her mother ages. The mother in question is now storming towards Aziraphale demanding to know what the Hell is wrong with him.

What can he say? _Not Hell, Heaven. I thought your daughter was my ex-line manager who tried to burn my friend alive because he thought it was me_. After many ‘madam, I assure yous’ and ‘profusely apologises’ Aziraphale retreats.

Aziraphale tries internet shopping. It does not go well. Besides this gift is for Crowley and he wants to feel the weight of it, inspect it for imperfections before he commits. He’s being silly. He has another whiskey. Then another.

The third time Crowley is with him.

“Bless it, angel!”

Crowley lands, legs akimbo, on the ground at the Christmas Market. He flicks mulled wine from his fingertips (white with cold, Aziraphale notes distractedly) before inspecting the stain on his coat. People are staring, some are laughing nervously. Aziraphale is not one of them. He’s breathing hard, trying to hear his own thoughts above the pounding in his head.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, very calm and very deliberate.

Aziraphale lowers his arm. The oversized nutcracker soldier goes with it. With his free hand he scoops up Crowley’s glasses and gives them back, then helps Crowley up. The amused on lookers are dispersing.

“What?” Crowley whispers, “Is going on?”

“Nothing at all. Why would you think anything is going on?” Aziraphale wrestles the nutcracker into his shopping bag, where it was heading before he thought he saw…well, whatever it was he thought he saw.

“You yelled, ‘Get down’ and pushed me into the mud, angel. I’m suspicious by nature and that has given me rather a lot to work with.”

Aziraphale’s gaze flicks up. Crowley’s follows to the wooden angel perched on the top of the pretzel kiosk, the lights from the bar behind casting a long winged shadow across the path. Aziraphale expects Crowley to laugh. Wants him to because Aziraphale just knows how ridiculous he’s being. Instead Crowley gives him a look over the top of his sunglasses. Oh dear, this means there will be A Conversation.

“This has happened before?”

“Of course not.” Aziraphale’s eyes dart away. “I just wasn’t thinking sensibly and it caught me rather of guard. We have had a fair bit to drink, after all.”

“That’s a yes then,” Crowley says. “Come here.”

Coming to rest back in the book shop is awkward as Crowley has transported all the bags as well. They rock slightly and Crowley steadies Aziraphale with his hand. Aziraphale exhales slowly and his shoulders drop now that he’s in comfortable surroundings. At least when he was in the bookshop Gabriel had the courtesy to use the front door rather than just manifesting anywhere.

“You must think I’m terribly silly.” He turns away, searching for something to do.

“Why?”

Crowley has sprawled himself on the sofa. He’s still looking over the top of his sunglasses which is terribly unfair because it keeps control of his vulnerability while making Aziraphale feel stripped back to the bone.

“I’m seeing angels everywhere.” Aziraphale tugs down his waistcoat.

“It’s Christmas, there are angels everywhere, and stars and donkeys and little drummer boys and those soft gingerbread hearts with icing on.”

“Lebkuchen, Crowley and I am not having anxiety attacks every time I see German confectionery.” Excellent, now he sounds waspish.

“What if the Lebkuchen was angel shaped?”

“You’re being unkind.”

Crowley leans forward, elbows on knees and sweeping of his glasses so he can fix Aziraphale with his serpent stare. “It’s ok. They messed with your head. You’re allowed to take some time to deal with that.”

Aziraphale worries his bottom lip with his teeth. He’d not been conscious of any head messing, but Aziraphale has grown rather accustomed to Gabriel popping up in all his favourite haunts. He’d come to expect it almost, this underlying tension of vigilance. Now he’s cut adrift because it shouldn’t happen, but what if it did and he wasn’t ready? “I really am alright,” he murmurs with tears collecting at the back of his throat.

“No you’re really not.” Crowley sighs, scraping his hands through his hair. “Neither am I. I had a near break down at the Malice in Wonderland show at Halloween. Hastur doesn’t even have horns but they had to peal me of the ceiling. They must have thought I was part of the floor show. There’s probably a You Tube video of it somewhere. It was why I stood you up for lunch at The Ivy the day after. Spent the rest of the previous evening drinking my way to the bottom of a whiskey bottle.”

“But you never said!” Outrage creeps into Aziraphale’s voice.

“Course I didn’t, you might have thought I was being _terribly silly._ ” The last two words are done in a passable impression of Aziraphale at his fussiest.

“Touche, my dear.” Aziraphale laughs, but there are still tears lurking in the wings. He sits on the sofa next to Crowley and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Quite the pair, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, but you like pears.” Crowley flings his arm along the back of the sofa. Aziraphale can hear the grin in his voice.

“Very good.” Aziraphale leans back the tops of his shoulders touching Crowley’s arm.

“We’ll get there. As long as we keep talking. I don’t just mean about dolphins, and where to have lunch next, or the correct components of a good dill sauce, but the important stuff.”

“The correct components of dill sauce are important!”

“You know what I mean.”

Aziraphale rather thinks he does. His head has worked its way on to Crowley’s shoulder. The demon’s arm has curled round so his fingers can card through the short hairs on the back of Aziraphale’s neck. It’s the closest to divine he’s felt in a very long while, but the moment is as fragile as a moth’s wing. He just can’t talk about it though, not now. A 6000 year habit can't be broken in an afternoon and right now it is enough to just enjoy this. He dares to splay his hand over Crowley’s chest. Crowley tenses and Aziraphale holds his breath until he feels him relax again.

“I say we miracle in food from the counter at Fortnum and Masons, crack open the cocoa and stay holed up in here until New Years,” Crowley says quietly.

“That sounds like an excellent idea. Oh! I can’t your present!” Aziraphale sits up so fast he nearly cracks Crowley on his chin.

“Aziraphale, don’t worry about it. You were prepared to take down the Archangel Gabriel with a bottle of Hungarian spirit and an oversized nutcracker in my defence. “

Oh Lord, he had been. It had been one thing to think they’d been coming for him, but the thought they would come for Crowley nearly discorporated him.

“You were glorious.” Crowley continues. “I nearly swooned. Probably would have done if I’d not been shoved into the mud.”

Aziraphale laughs, and it’s strong and good, and the tears retreat before the force of it.

Crowley guides Aziraphale’s head back down to his shoulder. The quiet is welcoming, then Crowley murmurs. “That's all I want from you, you know? It's all I've ever wanted from you.”

Aziraphale’s heart clenches. He had chosen Crowley without thought or insecurity or arguing himself out of it. “Oh my darling.” He still can't bring himself to destroy this with words or risk the tears coming back, but then Crowley always was braver than him. He twists his head so he can look at Crowley’s face, the demon never did put his sunglasses back on, and he looks as relaxed, as content with himself as Aziraphale has ever seen him. 

“You alright now, angel?”

“I’m better, thank you.”

“Yeah, me too.”

They settle back down, hands entwined over Crowley’s heart. The food will get miracled in eventually, but right now this is all Aziraphale needs for Christmas too. 

**Author's Note:**

> Now lurking on Tumblr @tawnyontumblr


End file.
